


Suspenseful Afternoon

by Inzannatea (Zanna23)



Series: Overtures and Interludes [6]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanna23/pseuds/Inzannatea
Summary: Jack Robinson needed a day off to tend to things at his modest home. He forgot to tell Miss Fisher he'd taken the day off. She finds him at home doing yard work and decides to spend the afternoon in the hammock keeping him company.Set mid-season 2. After Marked for Murder but before Blood at the Wheel.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Series: Overtures and Interludes [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1106022
Comments: 22
Kudos: 61





	Suspenseful Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks ever so much to the wonderful glamourouspixels for the beta read!! Other than the flashfics a month ago, this is my first jump back into fandom writing in over two years. I hope you enjoy!

It was getting warm again. Almost hot. He removed the cardigan Mother knitted him many years ago, folded it over the hammock, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Melbourne weather. Don’t like it? Wait a few minutes and it will shift for you. Even so, the days were getting cooler and it was very clearly autumn. The hammock would be put up in storage later today.

First, he wanted to get ahead of the falling leaves before the task became more difficult. It was, he knew as leaves appeared on the patches of garden he’d just raked, a Sisyphean task. It didn’t matter. It was the way things were done. That’s what Father had taught him, and that’s what he would do. It was neat and orderly and correct.

“A man’s home is his castle,” Father would say. “You can’t have your castle looking like a hovel. Show some pride in where you hang your hat, boy.” 

Those lessons were deeply ingrained, whether the castle was his parents’ modest home in North Richmond, or the lovely and well-appointed cottage that had been a gift from his former in-laws, or the bunker in the hollowed field in France, or this place—this duplex with more back garden than house. The garden was fenced on three sides with a six-foot-high fence. There was some evidence that the previous tenants wanted to keep the neighbors from snooping. This suited Jack just fine. He appreciated his solitude. It was hard to come by in a large city like Melbourne. This modest two-room space with enough room to read a book, cook a small meal, wash away the day, rest his head, and little else. He didn’t have a need for much else. He worked most of the time, and lately—well, lately—he’d been letting his chores go a little too much. Too many late nights wrapping up cases, too many Cordon Bleu inspired meals instead of his lonely small meals for one, too many comfortable cocktails in her parlour instead of books read in his worn and familiar chair.

He was due some time off and with the garden out of control and winter on the way, he decided that today was the day. Russell Street agreed with no argument.

He realized, as he heard the recognizable rumble of six cylinders of aeroplane engine installed in a European automobile of mixed heritage, that he’d failed to tell _her_ he was taking the day off. He wondered for only a breath how she managed to find him as he had certainly never shared his address. Only a shallow breath. Of course, she was here. Of course, she would have come to look for him.

He smiled as he returned to his task considering what Phryne was up against, “Would she break in the front door? It is a duplex, and the front doors are practically attached at the hinge.” he thought to himself as he worked, “Mrs. Barnsbury will be peeking through her lace curtains even now. Perhaps she’ll attempt a knock or two. There isn’t any access to the back garden from the street. The house is a duplex, but like all the other houses in the area, it kisses the houses on either side. Will she discover the laneway? Surely, she’ll work out which gate belongs to this garden in no time. But will she attempt to pick the gate lock or scale the fence?”

He heard the motorcar door slam and the relished rhythm of her heels on the walkway, the running skip up the three wooden steps, and the creak of the front porch as she approached his front door. He thought he should probably go get the door and just let her in, but he decided with a secret smile and internal aside, “No. No, wouldn’t want to make it too easy on her.”

She didn’t knock. That was interesting. He kept an eye on the back door as he continued to rake, wondering if she’d just decided to try for the daytime break and enter after all. It wasn’t as if his front door lock would be particularly difficult for her. “It would be brazen, of course,” he acknowledged to himself, “but difficult? Not in the slightest.”

When roughly five minutes passed and there was no sign of her, he started to worry that she’d just given up. Certainly not out of frustration, but she might—out of boredom. That would be no good. He was about to put down the rake and go looking for her when he heard scratching noises at the back fence. “Ah,” he thought with a smug grin, “There you are. Decided to climb, eh?”

He listened for her position and raked a pile of leaves toward the opposite side of the fence from where she was climbing. He managed to get a respectable pile built up before the purple feathers of her hat peeked up over the edge of the fence.

He leaned the rake against the fence and stood back with his arms crossed, an expectant smile on his face as she popped her whole head above the fence.

“Jack!” She was surprised to see that she hadn’t gotten the drop on him but continued her climb until she was sitting on the fence. “Where have you been!”

“Miss Fisher,” Jack watched her struggle with her coat on the fence, stepped forward with his arms raised up in an offer to help her down. “Here, let me—”

“How gallant.” She slid into his arms and down his body until they were both standing in the pile of leaves, face to face, less than a word apart. Her arms had come to rest looped around his neck, and his around her waist. Jack noted that Phryne’s eyes dilated, and her voice became deeper and softer. “Thank you, Jack.”

He leaned forward a fraction of an inch. Her lips parted, tongue darted out, licking her lips in anticipation. A strong Antarctic breeze added to the gooseflesh that both of them seemed to be experiencing as they slowly pulled together.

“OW! What was that!” Phryne exclaimed suddenly and pulled away, just as Jack was about to taste her lips.

“I—I’m sorry—I thought that—” he stammered.

Phryne looked around at the rake at their feet and they both laughed sheepishly as they realized that they’d been blocked yet again, this time by mother nature. The moment had passed. Jack picked up the rake and turned to Phryne.

“You didn’t mention why you were here, Miss Fisher. Just come to harass a lowly policeman on his day off?”

“Harass! Of course not, Jack! Besides, I didn’t know you were taking the day off. I thought we were going to discuss the Ramsey case today.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, “We were. I apologize. I—it’s just that the case hasn’t had any new evidence in some time, and I needed a day off. I haven’t had any time to tend to my garden or anything else recently because—”

“Because I’ve been monopolizing all of your time,” she said sadly, “Jack, I’m sorry. We can do this another time.” She started walking toward the house, “Would it be all right if I left through the front door?”

“No, wait!” Jack said too hastily to stop his own embarrassment, reaching for her hand.

She caught his fingers and entwined them with hers, “You’re going to make me scale the fence again? Will you catch me on the other side?”

“I mean, yes. Of course, you can go out the front door. But please, don’t go yet.” He thought he should have dropped her hand, but found now they were locked together, and he could not.

“I don’t want to keep you from your chores, Inspector.”

Jack looked down at their fingers still knitted together. Neither one of them seemed in any hurry to unravel the threads. He shrugged, “Two birds with one stone then. I keep working on my chores, and you keep me company by discussing the case.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” she graced him with a genuine smile, “Do you have the case file here?”

He nodded. “I brought it home last night when I still remembered our plans. I really am sorry, Miss Fisher.”

“Nonsense. This is an even better plan,” she eyed him appreciatively. He was not as she usually saw him. His brown moleskin trousers held up by braces and tucked into heavy work boots, his loose white cotton shirt with the top three buttons undone, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair knocked loose by sweat. His skin golden brown and glistening. The muscles of his biceps and upper pectorals all too obvious to her female gaze. “Oh, I see you have a hammock!”

“Ah, yes. Today is the last day I’ll be able to have it up. Putting it away is one of the chores,” he gestured toward the small shed at the back of the garden, “Would you—like to go for a ride?”

“It looks like an excellent spot from which to review case files. Do you have anything to drink on offer?”

“Water. Beer? I can go—”

“Allow me, Jack. That way I get to snoop as well,” she winked at him as she turned toward the house.

He smiled after her and went back to his chores. He really didn’t mind. At this point in their—what was this thing they had? It was definitely a friendship. It seemed like they both wanted something more than that, but they kept dancing around what that might mean. It was a romance of a sort, just not one he’d ever heard of before. Maybe if he had just gone ahead and kissed her, that would start something.

She could have kissed him too, though. She was a very liberal-minded woman. A thoroughly modern Miss. Why, it should be her that makes the moves. She’s the one with the experience with this sort of thing after all. This sort of thing. This sort of thing? What is this thing? And it came back to that.

Jack admonished himself for this line of thought. If he were to be honest with himself— _but why should he start that now?_ No. No. He stopped raking. He had to be honest. The inner demons of self-doubt had to shut up and listen. Jack loved Phryne. There wasn’t anything that any of the rational parts, or the self-doubting parts, or the war-torn parts of his mind could do about it. It was serious and he could not—would not—stop the feeling.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” her voice sliced through his inner caucus. “Beer?” she proffered a bottle while taking a swig of her own.

She’d left her hat inside and before handing Jack his beer, set the file on the small teak table next to the hammock. She had the extra wool blanket from his bed wrapped around her shoulders. The dark grey one that he only used on the coldest nights. She still wore the navy trousers and blouse, but she had shed the flimsy duster that offered protection only from fashion critics. A quick glance down her body showed him her high-heeled Mary Janes had been abandoned for his fleece-lined leather slippers. The domesticity of it was almost too much for him. He took the beer and gulped down about half before saying anything.

“Thirsty?” she asked, amused.

He wiped his mouth with the heel of his palm, “Ta.”

She stifled a laugh with crooked lips. “Cheers, Jack.”

Phryne clinked her bottle against his.

“I see you’ve made yourself cozy,” he nodded at her new look.

“I felt that chilly breeze earlier. If I’m going to be sitting out here keeping you company, I’ll need some protection from the southern winds,” she reasonably pointed out as she approached the hammock. She seemed to be studying it to try to figure out how best to approach mounting the thing.

Jack watched her shuffle from side to side with amusement. “Problem, Miss Fisher?”

“No! No problem at all! Just…trying to determine my approach. Can’t rush into these things, you know,” she said in a higher-pitched voice than usual. A tell-tale sign that she was not being truthful.

Jack was increasingly interested in her odds of a successful landing in the hammock as she raised a hesitant foot, still holding her beer bottle. It looked to Jack as if she might be trying to step into the thing. “Miss Fisher?”

She was raising the other foot now, placing her free hand near her foot on the edge of the rope. “Hmm?”

“I get the impression that you may have limited experience with these devices,” Jack teased with a voice full of mirth.

“Nonsense, Jack. I know exactly what I’m doooOOOOING!”

At that precise moment, several things happened:

Phryne shifted her weight off of the leg still on the ground and to the foot and hand on the edge of the hammock.

The sudden weight on the edge of the hammock pitched the now very taut configuration of fabric and rope forward violently, taking Phryne, who was still holding on to the edge, down to the ground with sudden force. Phryne shrieked as she was caught so rudely off guard by physics.

Jack, with lightning-fast reflexes and no small amount of prescience, dropped his rake and lunged forward, catching the beer bottle that had been flung from Phryne’s grasp as she fell in mid-spin, only spilling a couple of drops.

It was over in less than a second. Phryne was lying face up at Jack’s feet. He held her beer in one hand and had stopped the wildly spinning hammock in the other.

“Perhaps I do require a small amount of assistance, after all,” Phryne said with more gravitas than most would be able to muster lying on their backs in the garden.

Jack set her beer down and steadied the hammock before reaching for her forearm. She grabbed his and in one fluid movement he pulled her to standing, steadying her with his free hand on the small of her back as she reached her upright state, “Are you all right?” He asked with a tinge of amusement. He could see when she was on the ground that she was uninjured save her pride, but pride wounds can still sting. She hadn’t let go of his arm and made no move to get away from the closeness that he pulled her into.

“Just a little bruised ego. Nothing that won’t heal with time.” Her voice was low, her eyes fixed on his.

His throat was getting dry. He wasn’t sure the beer he’d dropped next to his rake would be able to quench it.

“Maybe you’ll accept some assistance this time?” he gave her one of his small secret smiles. Smiles Phryne had come to consider special smiles just for her. He didn’t realize it, but Phryne was collecting memories of them. She could count the number of these special smiles she’d received on one hand and each one caused her heart to beat faster.

“How about a demonstration, Jack?” she teased, “If you’re such an expert at it.”

He released her hand and dropped the other from her back. “Very well. If you insist.” In one smooth movement, he backed onto the hammock, swung his legs off the ground, and was lying comfortably before her with hardly a stir from the ropes.

“How?”

“Practice.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Well, I’m comfortable now, so if you want to do my chores, I’ll grab the case file and we can get started,” Jack said smugly.

“Now that is really unfair!” Phryne protested, “Help me get in there with you!”

Jack knew this was dangerous, but he also felt like he might finally be ready to make a move. He’d almost done it the other day after the footie match, but then there was all the paperwork and George had been insistent on getting things done just so. He hadn’t seen her since then. Even if it was only a few days, it felt like too long.

“Come here,” he finally said. The weight of their relationship hung between them like some sort of emotional Sword of Damocles. He knew how he felt. He thought he could see in her eyes how she felt. Consequences be damned.

She obeyed, and then he turned her around. “Put your hands on the edge of the hammock and then just sit.”

She looked behind her nervously, “Oh Jack, I’m not sure I can.”

“I’m heavier than you; you’ll fall back into the hammock.”

She looked at the hammock and how it was structured, working it out in her head, “Yes. I see.”

She sat down on the edge and rolled backward into Jack’s waiting arms. Her head landed on his shoulder; her arm splayed out on his chest. He caught her and held her tight to himself, “Now the hard part will be us both getting out gracefully.”

“That’s assuming we want to get out again,” she snuggled closer, inhaling deeply. Jack felt gooseflesh and a small shudder from Phryne. He was becoming increasingly embarrassed that now that she was finally in his arms, she was getting a nose-full of his sweat-scented neck. He thought he should apologize for his offensive odor, but to his surprise, she let out a decidedly satisfied, “Mmmm, Jack. How is it you smell so divine after working so hard all day?”

He hadn’t thought it possible, but her enthusiasm for his manly scent left Jack even more embarrassed and a bit uncomfortable. He tried to chuckle it away, “I don’t know, Miss Fisher. Perhaps that wild ride on the hammock has wreaked havoc with your olfactory sense.”

She inhaled again, this time gripping his shirt, and pressing her face into the warmth of his neck. Lips and nose casting feather touches on his jugular vein, “No, I can still smell the normal Jack-ness of you, but it’s more pronounced. It’s intoxicating.”

It was too much. Her—pressed against him—speaking words of lust into the nerves that traveled directly between brain and groin; he couldn’t take it.

He rolled them until she was on her back in the hammock. He managed to cradle her head and torso to get her centered and then he swung his legs off the side, twisting at the hips, and stood over her, steadying the ropes.

This was not what Phryne had expected to happen when she was rolled at all! She found herself alone in the center of the hammock, looking up at a disheveled and clearly aroused Jack Robinson. “JACK! What was that! Get back in here!”

“Ah-ah, Miss Fisher. I still have chores to do.”

She let out a very unladylike growl and tried to maneuver herself to an upright position, “That is dirty play, Inspector.”

He held the hammock steady while she sat more upright on the canvas fabric. “Those were the rules you agreed to.”

Settled in a seated position, he handed her the Ramsey file and her beer and picked up his rake. After a brief pout where she refused to do her part, boredom won out and she started reviewing the file and sharing theories with Jack.

About an hour in, Jack noted that Phryne’s statements and observations about the case were getting fewer and further between. The sun was getting much lower in the sky and now seemed to be just barely peeking over from Mrs. Barnsbury’s side of the fence. The air had gotten colder as well. He looked at the hammock and saw Phryne curled up in the center of it with the wool blanket swaddled around her. She’d also managed to pull his mother-knitted cardigan off the end of the hammock and was covered in that, too. The papers from the file seemed to be providing some insulation underneath her. She was softly snoring as the Antarctic breeze rocked the hammock in a gentle rhythm.

Jack carefully extracted the Ramsey files and placed them on the table. He studied the hammock for a moment and decided that she wasn’t in the exact middle. There was a little bit of space on the side he was currently on. He very carefully, eased next to her, while coaxing her out of her rolled-up ball position. His skin was still warm from the last of the sun and activity, and she immediately pressed herself into his warmth. Icy fingers splayed on his chest, and then, feeling the chill from the air, burrowed between buttons and under his shirt, finding skin instead of cotton. The surprise feeling of deathly cold flesh on his torso elicited an involuntary, “Nngh” sound from the back of his throat. That sound finally brought Phryne to stir.

“It’s your own fault,” a sleepy voice said, as an icy nose touched his neck, “If you hadn’t left me here to freeze to death, you wouldn’t be so uncomfortable now.”

He pulled her even closer, bringing the cardigan over both of them and dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “You’re very talkative for a corpse.”

Her hands slowly thawing, she began drawing lazy circles on his bare skin beneath his shirt. They could both feel the tension brewing between them. Both felt afraid to make a move lest they be dropped out of the hammock on their faces. Jack thought about this as he tried to bring himself to just go ahead and kiss her. He would finally do it. He started to turn to capture her lips—

“Speaking of corpses,” she interrupted the moment. “Ramsey’s son-in-law is the murderer.”

“And you worked this out lying in the hammock, did you?”

“Um-hmm. Watching you rake leaves, I started thinking of the change of seasons and remembered that London observes daylight saving time whilst we don’t, so the son-in-law’s alibi of the wire to London needed another look. Your Constable Clark didn’t do so well with the maths on that one.”

“Extraordinary,” he said softly, looking down at her face again, wanting very much to kiss her smug smile.

She blinked slowly at him in a cat’s greeting, inviting him to throw away the inhibition to which he clung so tightly and just kiss her. He smiled in response as if to say, ‘Yes, I will.’

As he leaned in, lips parted, a strong southern breeze sent chills through both of them—but also sent the Ramsey file flying off the table!

“Oh no! JACK, LOOK!” Phryne pushed him away and expertly leapt out of the hammock, climbing over Jack. Their cozy cocoon barely registered a sway as she flitted away catching pieces of paper as they swirled around the yard.

Jack laid back and watched her dance frantically around the yard catching every last piece of evidence from the Ramsey file. He started laughing. Not his normal soft chuckle or simple wry smile. This was a full belly laugh.

“What is so funny, Jack! We nearly lost the file!” Phryne was trying to get all of the papers back into the file folder as neatly as she could.

“You lying little minx,” he kept laughing.

“Whatever do you mean?” Phryne pitched her voice higher.

Jack launched himself out of the hammock and came to his feet, “I mean, Miss Fisher—” he took the mess of a file out of her hands, moving into her personal space—“that you are perfectly capable in the ways of the hammock. You feigned ineptitude! It was another one of your ploys to engineer a situation to your own advantage.”

Phryne looked longingly at his lips and then met his gaze, “What advantage would that be, Jack?” She moved even closer to him. Their bodies were pressed against one another, separated only by their clothing and the Ramsey case file.

He wanted to say, “Manipulating me into following my greatest passion. Tricking me into doing what I already want to do. Manufacturing intimacy to push me over the edge and finally break my will to resist you.”

But he didn’t.

“Phryne, I—I need to call this in,” he said, closing his eyes and swaying just far enough away from her to break their connection.

She nodded, but just a small sliver of hurt was evident in her eyes if you knew where to look. Alas, Jack did not. “Of course, Inspector.” 

Jack walked toward the house to phone in the new information about Ramsey’s son-in-law. A minute or so later, Phryne entered the house wearing the cardigan and carrying the beer bottles and his winter blanket. He was still on the telephone when she donned her hat and picked up her flimsy duster.

“I’ve sent Collins to pick up the son-in-law,” he informed her.

“Good,” she smiled, “I should go. Could I borrow this? It’s turned cold.” She pulled the cardigan around her.

Jack was overwhelmed with how lovely she looked in it. Something so meaningful to him, made with love for him by his own dear mother, worn by the woman who had captured his heart so completely. He had trouble finding his voice, “Of course.”

“Jack? Consider that it may not have been only my advantage that was being pressed.”

He stared at her wordlessly as the light began to dawn on him. “I’m an idiot,” he thought to himself, closing his eyes and shaking his head in self-realization. “Why am I resisting her in the first place?”

“See you tomorrow?” She asked hopefully. 

He smiled, “I look forward to it, Miss Fisher.”


End file.
